Coureur de Bois
by William Banner
Summary: In the city of Boston, an accomplished sniper begins his career as a Staff Sergeant in a US Army Partisan unit. But can he balance the life of a fighter with that of a student? More importantly, can he still retain his sanity in the face of war?
1. The First Hunt

The First Hunt

Boston wasn't like the other cities. New York, Washington, and San Francisco had absorbed a lot of the destruction of the invasion, but Boston, somehow, had come through unscathed. True, Soviet soldiers and armor seemed to be on every street corner, and the sky seemed filled with attack choppers, but for the most part life continued as normal in the city.

One man, however, was going to change all that. He got off the 'T', Boston's subway system, and looked left and right in the station. He looked respectable enough—navy blue suit and red tie, white shirt, clip-on shades over his rectangular glasses, a briefcase in hand and a pack on his back. Everyone thought that he was some mindless government bureaucrat, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

It just made his job, that of being a killer, that much easier.

The man made his way through the streets of Boston, biding his time until he saw the signal he was looking for: A simple compass rose, made like four arrows, on the side of an apartment building. Happily enough, a small Soviet detachment was guarding the hotel across the street, with the sickle and hammer flag flying high above. The killer nodded to himself, then entered the apartment complex.

He walked to the fifth floor, rather than take the elevator, and his reasoning was simple. The Soviets, powerful as they were, still couldn't handle what Americans thought of as simple problems like power distribution. Already several Bostonians had been stuck in elevators for up to four hours if the power suddenly died. Once he got the fifth floor, he rapped on the door once, paused, then rapped four times quickly. Two answering raps came back, and the door opened.

"You the accountant?" The man inside the door asked. The killer nodded silently. "Come in, then." Quickly, the man in the suit stepped inside, and closed the door. He looked around. All down the hall and in the rooms he could see were resistance fighters and their equipment. A man in camouflaged fatigues saw the blue suit, and walked over.

"It's good to have you, _Coureur_. News of your particular talent has already spread." The man gave the commander a small, tight smile.

"Yes, I have already noticed that. I trust that you received my package?" The commander nodded silently. "_Bien_. By the way, that about exhausts my French, so don't get any ideas. Here is my end of the bargain." The briefcase was exchanged, and the commander opened it. He whistled in admiration.

"An M40. I haven't seen one of those in months. Don't worry, _coureur_, I'll give it to my best sharpshooter. Your weapon is in room five-D, my young friend. Get your gear on, and meet me in five-A for the briefing." The sniper nodded, and quickly strode to his room, where he shut the door and drew the blinds.

_Well, that's one American weapon reclaimed,_ Kevin Villiers thought to himself, slinging his pack off and getting its contents out. Stripping down to his skivvies, he exchanged them for a pair of Underarmor shorts, what he called the runner's boxers. Quickly, he put on his ACUs, having liberated them from the same Soviet GAZ truck as the American sniper rifle. He put on his Kevlar vest and pads over his fatigues, then affixed the knee and elbow pads. Finally, he put on the garrison cap and knelt on the floor, finding the case and pulling out from under the bed.

Opening the case, he saw with satisfaction his first rifle. The optics hadn't been jarred, the safety was still on, and the bolt open. What he was admiring was an 1891/30 Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle, bought a year before the invasion by Villiers. The scope was still the original one issued in 1942, but upgraded by having an anti-reflective coating on the scope. Kevin had done this to protect his eyes more than anything else, but it certainly did the trick to prevent Russians from seeing him.

The sniper put his boots on his feet, and stood up, ready to go when he saw himself in the mirror. As always, the transformation stunned him. He was a tall young man, about six foot one, with short blond hair, almost a buzz cut. His face was healthily tanned, due to his activities, and his muscles, while not obvious, were strong for his lightly-built frame. But most interesting of all, to his friends and fellow fighters, were his eyes. They were a pale blue, like ice, and revealed little. Even his girlfriend, Elizabeth, could not discern his thoughts. It was probably better that way, Villiers had decided.

Villiers slung the rifle over his shoulder, and walked down the corridor, his captured boots thudding down the corridor. Fighters looked up at the sound, impressed with what they saw and almost fearful when they saw the rifle. They all knew who _Coureur _was, and the fact that they couldn't see his eyes behind the shades only made them more apprehensive. Villiers didn't care for it; God knew that it was difficult being a high-school junior and a Resistance fighter at the same time.

The group's commander had gathered his squad and special team commanders in 5A, where a wall was covered with a diagram of the hotel and pictures of the areas of tactical importance. He had waited until the _coureur_ walked into the room, and seeing the sniper made him begin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, listen up." The commander's calm voice, though spoken softly, cut through the din and stopped all conversation. "Thank you. We have a mission to accomplish, and then we must extract ourselves from Boston. The objective is simple: Assault the hotel from the street level and the basement, converging on the third floor to room three-one-two," The commander said, marking with a black marker the points of ingress and egress. The men and women stared at the map intently, already formulating plans and contingency plans.

"Once we breach the door and secure the package, we will use the vehicles in the parking garage adjacent to the hotel to make our extraction. We will go as far as we need, and then drop off several of our fighters. Some need to make their way south in order to carry on the fight."

"Now, for assignments. Alpha and Bravo squads will make the assault on three-one-two, with support team Saber providing assistance. Charlie and Delta squads will provide perimeter security, with teams Dagger and Axe on the lookout for armor. Finally, team Scalpel will provide overwatch, eliminating officers, heavy weapons and other TOs."

As soon as Villiers heard his assignment, he breathed easy. At least he didn't have to go in and eliminate the target this time. He still had nightmares from the last one, a Guards Regiment colonel. As the unit leaders turned to leave, the commander waved Villiers over, where three other men were gathered. The sniper walked over languidly, using an economy of motion that came whenever a race or battle was about to start.

"_Coureur_, meet your team. This man here is Specialist Rolands." The corporal nodded politely to the sniper, a SAW in his hands. He looked a lot stronger than the sniper, and was probably tasked with making sure the teenager survived the fight.

"This fine lady, on my right, is Sergeant Waters. I believe that you know her as 'Historian.'" And indeed Villiers knew her, but it was doubtful that Waters remembered him. The M40 was slung over her shoulder, and she offered the teenager a warm grin.

"Finally, this is Private Lourdes, another compatriot of yours in terms of heritage." The private didn't laugh. Instead, he sized up the teenager, but could not seem to be too contemptuous because of the Staff Sergeant insignia on Villiers' cap. The rank was official, having been given to the teenager after the government-in-exile in the Canadian wilderness learned of the teenager's exploits.

"I'll leave you to get to know one another. The assault begins at 1800." The commander said, leaving the room. Villiers quickly glanced at his watch. 1545. _Nearly two hours,_ the sniper thought to himself. Two hours in which to locate potential hides, check his equipment, make sure his team members knew how he would act, and establish a division of targets. Not an ideal situation, but that was now the norm for _Coureur_.

"Okay, I'll dispense with the protocol," Villiers said softly, turning to study the maps. "You don't call me by my rank, you call me _Coureur_. I'll probably call you by your last name; I don't mean to be condescending, but a rank merely singles you out in combat. Do you all understand?" A short, respectful nod from Rolands, a grin from Waters, and a hostile, choppy nod from Lourdes. "Good. Now, do any of you know some good hides around here?"

"Yes, _Coureur_. The roof of the apartment building has quite a few ducts and pipes, plus the usual stairwell openings. Kind of a jungle up there, and it is about the same height as the sixth floor of the hotel. Also, there's a blown-out side street where the Russians have set up an MG post. We could use that to our advantage." Villiers was surprised that Rolands had spoken; apparently the specialist was going to be NCO material in a few months. He gratefully nodded, locating the MG post on the map.

"Good, good. I do think we can use that, but I'd prefer not to. Ms. Waters, tell me, do you still run the sixteen?" Villiers slipped the question in innocuously, waiting for the reaction. He and Mary Waters had been on Nauset High school's track team, and Villiers recalled rooting the sergeant on.

"My God, it's _you!_" Waters gasped, unable to believe her eyes. Kevin took off the clip-on shades, allowing Mary to see his eyes. It was confirmed beyond a doubt. "It _is_ the eight runner! Man, didn't you get two fifteen the last meet?" Mary asked, happy to see her friend Kevin but not a little afraid of what he had become.

"You still remember that conversation, eh? Yes, I did get two fifteen for the eight hundred. I should be able to qualify for States this year, if they're still being held." Villiers said, sharing in the happiness of the moment. He knew that Mary had enlisted, but somehow she had survived the initial debacle and joined a Resistance unit, seemingly made up of military personnel and organized as a platoon. Villiers approved of the whole set-up, as he had been planning on enlisting when the Soviets invaded.

"Well, enough about the past, we have to concentrate on the now." Villiers said, abruptly cutting the moment short. He couldn't help but notice Lourdes shoot him an angry look, and had finally had enough of the private. "Something you'd like to say, Lourdes?" The malevolence almost flared in the man's eyes.

"Yeah, I got one question: Can a pansy like you lead us? I thought that this 'coor-ur'," he said, massacring the French word, "This sniper would be a mean dude, but instead we get a friggin' high school kid? You'll be dead in five minutes, and I don't think you can handle this." Villiers stopped, and looked coldly at the soldier. He glared contemptuously at Villiers, certain that he had made the kid feel bad.

Before Lourdes knew it, he was lying flat on his back, a sharp burning sensation in his knee, a knife to his throat and the shades back on Villier's glasses. "I could have killed you easily a second ago, but it is the sheerest professionalism and acknowledgment of the importance of this assault that I don't. That satisfy any questions you had?" Shaken, the private shook his head, vowing never to judge a person again. This kid had just managed to take down a black belt in jujitsu. He was, in other words, the NOMFWIC: The Number-One Mother F#cker Who's In Charge.

"Any other problems?" No one spoke. "Good. I think we all know our roles. Be back here at 1715 for the final briefing and to get to the jump-off point. Dismissed."


	2. Engagements

Engagements

As the start of the raid came closer, the fighters began to talk less and less, and instead busied themselves with repetitive tasks such as weapons maintenance or going over the assault plans again. Villiers, sitting up against a wall, watched the rest of Scalpel do these things, but not he. He had already gone into what he called 'The Zone', a state of mental and physical detachment to what was occurring around him. However, that didn't mean he wasn't human. He withdrew a photograph from his pocket, and looked at it.

_It is, perhaps, best that you don't know what is happening, Elizabeth_, Villiers thought, looking at his girlfriend's image. _The pain and suffering of war is foreign to you, as it was to me not too long ago. Never shall that touch you nor any of my loved ones, so long as I breathe._ Kevin sighed mentally, knowing full well that sooner or later he would be caught either by Elizabeth, his parents, or his friends when he was about to go off on a mission. Thankfully, they had not yet made the connection between a 'Scout meeting' and reports of dead Soviet soldiers. They would realize that in time, though.

"Troopers! In five-A, time to go!" The platoon's sergeant shouted down the hall. Villiers got up on his feet, and motioned for Scalpel to gather around. Their plan was simple. Villiers and Rolands would go to the top of the apartment complex, providing overwatch for the forces below. Waters and Lourdes, going down to the ground level, would take over the MG post and set up shop there with Charlie's help. With luck, it would be a simple and quick in-and-out, with only a few shots fired by Scalpel.

"Okay, we all know what's up. According to the commander, my shot will kick off the raid. Waters, you will be tasked with taking out any heavy weapons positions first. Because you'll be down on the street, you can see things a lot more clearly than from my angle. Conversely, I'll handle counter-sniper. Got it? Let's go." Villiers said, already making for the roof stairwell. Rolands followed behind, making sure that his SAW was still on safe; he didn't want to use it all that soon, but thought that before this was done, he would have to lay down covering fire for someone.  
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_Coureur_ looked down at the scene calmly, dispassionately, through the scope of his rifle. The Russians had just conducted a changing of the guard, and the men now on duty looked bored with their assignment. He knew that it would still be a tough fight, no matter who was in charge or who was defending the area. However, he did notice his first target of the evening.

That unfortunate soul was a colleague of his, in the macabre way of war. His name was Sergeant Pavel Drionski, of the 14th Infantry Guards Regiment. From what _Coureur_ had managed to read of him, Drionski was a famed sniper, having won several marksmanship competitions in the Red Army. However, the sergeant had never operated alone or with a spotter, always with a squad. In other words, he was a sharpshooter, but he could certainly act as a sniper. All of this conspired against him. In a way, _Coureur_ was almost sad. The man with the Dragunov was skilled, no doubt. Under happier circumstances, he probably would have gone to a shooting range with him.

But that was merely supposition. _Coureur_ had a job to do, and that was to start the raid. He waited until the soldier with Drionski turned around, presumably to go back to his own post. The American's finger slowly pulled back on the trigger until he felt resistance, then waited again for three crucial seconds. Smoothly, he squeezed the trigger, eyes still on target.

The sharp, violent _crack_ of the bullet was preceded almost instantaneously by a bullet in the Russian's throat. Then, nothing at all happened for two seconds, if one was to look at a watch. After those two seconds passed, all hell broke loose.

"Go go go!" Screamed the platoon sergeant, leading Charlie and Delta squads. Waters quickly took out the machine gun post, and Lourdes cleared it, opening up on the hotel with the PKM. Alpha and Bravo, led by the Commander, stormed up from the basement, surprising the guards inside and gunning them down ruthlessly. _Coureur_ set to work on the task at which he excelled, that of hunting other humans. The soldier with Drionski was the next to die, and the machine gunner near him died as well. The world morphed into a well-defined circle for _Coureur_; he saw only what his mind and scope deemed important. Working his way from the top of the hotel to the bottom, he killed mercilessly, a man possessed by the fever pitch of battle.

Rolands was frightened of the teenager next to him. Tasked with protecting the sniper, he could not help but feel horror at how the kid cleared the area of targets. A machine gunner there, a sniper here, a soldier with an RPG in a window…he had thought that war could never do that to an American teenager, but there _Coureur_ was, putting five more rounds into his rifle to carry out his task. Relief came soon for the apprehensive soldier over the helmet radios they all wore.

"This is Gold Six, we have packages. Repeat, we have packages. Everyone fall back to the target building." _Coureur_ heard this, and quickly threw his pack on his shoulder, as well as the padded case for his rifle. Again, Rolands was surprised at how quickly the kid moved. The pack and rifle didn't slow him down at all, going down six flights of stairs. Exiting the complex at ground level, _Coureur_ sprinted across the street, covered by Waters and Lourdes. After getting to the hotel's doors, he covered the two as they ran from the end of the drive to the lobby. Charlie and Delta squads fell back on the garage, where they discovered two armored cars and several trucks. The package was already in one of the cars, and the entire assault force loaded themselves up. Within minutes, they were rolling their way out of Boston. Total time elapsed from the first shot to extraction: Ten minutes, thirteen seconds.  
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Villiers leaned back against the canvas covering of the truck, closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He remembered each and every shot that he had taken in the firefight. He wasn't superhuman, far from it. He couldn't help but feel a small part of his soul die with each shot he took, each life he erased from the land of the living. A line from a sacred Hindu text ran through his head. _I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds._ It was a role that he feared he would become accustomed to.

"_Coureur_, this is where we let you off. But first, I want you to see the results of our raid." The commander said, startling the sniper out of his thoughts. The convoy had pulled off into a highly wooded area, and one squad had gotten out to provide security. Slinging his rifle, Villiers leapt off the tailgate of the truck and walked to the armored car in the middle of the convoy. The door swung open, and Villiers felt his jaw drop. _It couldn't be…it's impossible!_

Standing before him was Major William Dawes, a near-legendary Green Beret. He had been a famed Special Forces soldier in the war in Afghanistan, and had disappeared shortly after the invasion. But the real shock was the person standing next to him. That person was Emily Miers, the youngest state Senator in the Commonwealth, at the age of twenty-six years. She was also one of the most prominent anti-Communist politicians in the months leading up to invasion day, and had disappeared almost immediately.

"So, this is the famed sniper that provided overwatch for us. I may not know your real name, but it is an honor to meet you." Major Dawes stated, holding out his hand. Villiers instead decided to salute the army officer, making sure that he couldn't see the shock in his own eyes. Miers was more verbose, yet more succinct at the same time. Villiers almost automatically distrusted her, a legacy of his brief internship in DC.

"I don't know who you are, or where you come from, but I am indebted to you. I'll be leading the Resistance in this area soon, so don't be surprised if you hear from me through channels unknown. I think we might find a use for you in the fight." Villiers nodded silently and hoped that he would never meet this lady again. He had to kill a respected colleague, even if he was an enemy. In a way, Villiers thought himself to be a kind of modern knight—not wanting to kill some, but having to anyways.

"I believe that your transportation is nearby. I assume that you can get to it by yourself?" The Commander asked. Villiers nodded, and began walking to the woods. The convoy pulled out, and Villiers walked further into the woods. Once there, he found a tree facing a clearing, and sat down. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he recalled the sights that day. The wedding band on a machine gunner's hand, gleaming in the sunlight. The look of horror in a conscript's eyes as a bullet hit his chest. The agony in the face of another sniper. The images blended together into one long, continues series until there was nothing left, no more tears to cry.

_This is my lot in life. I must bear this burden and many others, so many others before I can rest. I have to do this for my family, my friends, Elizabeth, my country._ Villiers thought. Sighing sadly, he stood up and trotted the short distance to his car, hid away in a seldom-used parking lot of the forest. Changing quickly into his civilian clothes, he hid the rifle and fatigues in a hidden trunk compartment. He drove back to his house cautiously, obeying almost every traffic law. By the time he got over the Cape Cod canal, it was nine o'clock in the evening. Villiers knew his parents were gone until Sunday. He continued on until he got to a little town known as Eastham, and pulled into the driveway of his house. His brother was away, presumably at a friend's house. Villiers hid the rifle away in the basement, and collapsed on the bed. Sunday was to be a day of rest and refit, of cleaning and planning. Before his mind lost track of all thoughts, he asked himself one final question.

_What was it that I was supposed to read for History?_  
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The alarm clocked blared, startling Villiers out of his sleep. _Crap,_ he thought to himself. Hauling himself out of bed, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned the shower water on. Looking at himself in the mirror, he thought that he had aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours. It was nothing new for the teenager; he had seen a similar look on the faces of other fighters after a skirmish. His mind and head cleared, though, as hot water bombarded his skull. _Ah…man, I can't keep this up for much longer._ Villiers feared being arrested late at night, feared for the well-being of his family. The Soviets didn't exactly respect the American government's provision for the crime of treason, preferring to arrest or execute entire families. It was a sight that he had already seen once, in Hyannis, the commercial center for the Cape.

The first thing on Villiers' mind, as usual, was coffee first thing in the morning. After turning the percolator on, he went outside to get the newspaper. He picked up the paper, and was glad to see that it was still the old, pre-invasion one. Whatever the faults of the Soviets, they hadn't restricted freedom of the press to as large a degree as they had other areas. More to the point, it allowed certain messages and codes to be exchanged among the fighters. Once back inside, he fed his dogs and poured himself the coffee. Savoring the flavor, he looked outside as the sun dawned over the treetops.

"Miers said that she would contact me. But how could she, given that she doesn't know where I come from? I know for a fact that the Commander doesn't, either, because I approached him as a freelancer, essentially. She doesn't know who I am, where I live, or even how old I am." Villiers said to himself, trying to organize his thoughts.

"But the all-famous _Coureur_ didn't count on some of her spies, no?" A woman's voice sounded behind him, and he whirled around, his hand reaching for the nearest weapon handy. A _click_ stopped that hand at once.  
"I wouldn't do that, _Coureur_. It would be a pity to end your illustrious career as a Resistance fighter." Villiers commanded his heart rate to subside, and spoke calmly into the darkness of the house.

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" A shadow moved from deeper within the house—_How long had this woman been here?_—And the shadow emerged into the light. "I would never have figured you for it, Kevin, but somehow it fit," Alexa Trainor said. Kevin's eyes flew open, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Alexa Trainor was about five foot seven, with blue eyes and fair brown hair. She was regarded with warmth by Villiers as one of the most intelligent, kind-hearted people he had ever met in his life. He had leaned on her a few times, and conversely stood up for her when she was too timid to do so herself. About the only sport that she excelled in was sailing, a fact respected by Villiers, a sailor himself. She was, however, the last person that he expected to be one of Miers' agents.

"Well, Alexa, this war is just full of surprises, isn't it?" Villiers smiled, as his hand wandered around to the small of his back. Alexa, he noticed, was not paying attention to what his off-side hand was doing, knowing that he was right handed. She was in for a surprise. _Okay, Glock 17, held at the side, safety presumably off,_ Villiers thought rapidly. _She is nervous about having the gun, doesn't want to use it, thinks that it is evil. So much the better._ "By the way, did your instructors teach you something about approaching a subject?" From the look on her face, Villiers knew instantly that she didn't have any of the training any competent intelligence officer would have received. He withdrew his Sig Saur P226, a pistol widely used in federal law enforcement, crossed the room, and had Alexa's arms pinned to her side, the barrel pointed and pressed against her skull.

"You don't ever, _ever_ let your guard down around a subject, and you always keep your weapon on target? Understood?" Alexa nodded slowly, and Kevin relaxed. Holstering his pistol, he walked over to the counter and poured the poor girl a cup of coffee. Gesturing for her to sit, he sat down as well and took a sip of his coffee.

"Well, then, what does the honorable Ms. Miers want of me?"


	3. Contacts and Preliminaries

Contacts and Preliminary Investigations

For a moment, Alexa stared openly at Villiers. She still could not believe that Kevin was the man known only as _Coureur_ in the Resistance. From what she had heard, _Coureur_ was a pre-Invasion staff sergeant in the Army, a man who knew all there was about killing from long range. A man whose name was supposedly whispered in fear by the Spetsnaz snipers, the Guard infantry regiments. A killer who emerged from the shadows at random, making his sudden chaotic kills, and then melting away into the night, as if he never was. But the clue was there for Alexa. _Coureur_, it turned out, meant 'runner' in French. Ever since she was assigned by Miers, before she was captured, to discover who _Coureur_ was, she tried to decipher what the cover name could indicate. When Alexa learned that _Coureur_ supposedly operated on Cape Cod, she took a closer look at the cross-country team of her school. One man, and one man only, fit the bill in terms of absences and language abilities, but she doubted it. Only now were her suspicions confirmed.

"Kevin, you won't like what I'm going to say, because it is asking a lot from you. And I mean a _lot_." Alexa warned him, looking closely at his face. As always, he was like a sphinx—Alexa couldn't read him. "Okay. I was assigned by Miers to determine who _Coureur_ was. When I determined his or her identity, I was to make _Coureur_ an offer, an offer that could possibly have huge consequences for the Resistance. Kevin," She said, obviously not comfortable with her assignment, "Miers wants you to…" She trailed off, unwilling to make herself say it.

"Alexa, what is it that Ms. Miers wants of me?" Villiers asked quietly, turning from the window and back towards her. She nearly gasped in surprise. Kevin's eyes were like rifle barrels leveled at her, penetrating her own gaze as if he was looking down into the depths of her soul, searching for the answer to his question. But what surprised her was Kevin's face. It looked…old, haggard. It looked like he had seen sights worthy of a dozen lifetimes of combat. She noticed a small scar on his forehead, slanting down towards his eye, that she hadn't noticed before. A small spot of white hair was visible above his left ear, probably brought on by stress. She couldn't do this to Kevin, not after all he had done both for her and the country to which he had sworn his allegiance. But she had her orders.

"Kevin, she wants you to die."

Villiers, to his credit, did not react. He calmly took a sip of his coffee, and stared at Alexa. His right hand suddenly shot out across his body, grabbed her pistol, and wrenched it out of her hand. He ejected the magazine, field-stripped it, and threw it into the next room. This all occurred within ten seconds. Leveling his own pistol at Alexa, he took a few steps back, screwing a small black cylinder on the barrel. Alexa was stunned, not knowing what was going on. She didn't believe that Kevin had just done that.

"If Miers wanted me dead, you would have acted sooner, and you would have been dead in the instant you tried anything. I did that to illustrate that you must, at times, be more specific. What does Miers mean when she says that she wants me dead?" Villiers questioned her, as he lowered his pistol. He knew that Alexa meant him no harm, as she had not screwed a suppressor on her Glock's barrel. But he did want to illustrate to her that one must be specific in this business that he was in.

"Right. Well, I guess she means she wants you to fake your own death, and begin a resistance cell here on the Cape." Kevin nodded, sitting down at the table again and holstering his pistol, the suppressor in his pocket. He had feared that Miers would want him to do something like that, given his performance both prior to and at her rescue. By now, the sun was clearly visible above the trees, and he closed his eyes. He did not want to do this. His parents were already nervous, given the Soviet occupation, and he did not want to send them over the edge. If they were told that he had died in a car accident, but later saw him in town, no amount of explaining could save them.

"Alexa, you know that I am committed to my family. They've raised me, taught me values that I cannot shake, and gave me a sense of mission. They raised me to be a man who stands up for what he believes in, who values freedom and liberty over tyranny and oppression." He looked Alexa in the eye. "But they also raised me to be aware of my actions, what they do to my family and loved ones. I am their son, and they have given me so much love and support. To simply walk away from that, in this time, to leave them wondering if I was arrested for 'crimes against the state'…it would be too much for them. I can't leave them. My brother, tough as he is, isn't smart enough to beat the Soviets at their basic game. I am. I have to stay here for their sake." He finished, hoping that Alexa could understand him. She did.

"That's what I thought, and, more importantly, that's what Miers thought you would say." She stood up, walking to the door. "I'll contact you when more information is forwarded to me. Same time, same place. _Au revoir, Coureur_." With those words, his friend disappeared into the dawn, leaving Villiers to wonder about the nature of the Resistance. He was not certain of it, but a sudden cold feeling fell down his spine. He had long learned to trust his instincts, and he didn't like what they were telling him.  
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"Kevin! What, exactly, was the Adams-Onis treaty?" Kevin was startled awake from a slight nap. His AP US history teacher glared at him angrily, the glasses on the man's face reflecting the light harshly into Kevin's eyes. Kevin rapidly reviewed the events of Monroe's administration, knowing that the teacher was trying to make an example of him. Kevin was determined to prove Mr. Bridges wrong yet again.

"The Adams-Onis Treaty was a treaty brokered between Spain's foreign minister and John Quincy Adams, SecState for Monroe, sir! The treaty ceded Florida from Spain to the United States, sir!" Kevin's voice boomed through the classroom. Mr. Bridges shook his head at Kevin, surprised and not a tad angry that his number one student had, somehow, given the correct answer even though he had been asleep. The rest of the class laughed, happy to see that Mr. Bridges' trap had backfired on him, for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Despite his best efforts, he simply could not trick the best history student in the class.

"Kevin, I don't know how you managed to pull that off, but I will not tolerate this! This is your third-block class, and, although granted that this is the rotating block for this class, that is no reason for you to nod off! Either you must change your sleeping habits or transfer into a lower-level class. Am I understood?" Kevin gave his teacher a murderous look.

"It is hard to focus, sir, when you know that you have not heard from friends in the military since the invasion. Or, perhaps, you've never lost sleep over something like that?" Mr. Bridges could not, and would not, reply to that. Everyone was still feeling the after-effects of the Soviet invasion, and it had made Kevin lose contact with some close friends.

"I understand that, but you must make an effort to pay attention, or you _will_ be attending a Saturday school. Emily, what prompted Monroe to create his non-intervention doctrine?" He yelled at another student, turning to attempt to create a new victim in the class. Kevin turned his head away from the teacher, thinking, _You weren't stuck behind a scope the entire night, waiting to take down just one target._ That target, a Soviet _militsya_ captain, had been in charge of investigating and prosecuting several police officers who had refused to obey the orders of a Red Army infantry captain. With the officer's death, the investigation was dropped, as were the charges. However, Villiers could not just tell that to Mr. Bridges. Truth be told, he didn't trust many teachers these days, given the political tendencies of most. Some were outright communists, like Mrs. Granger, his English teacher, or merely socialist, like Mr. Bridges. A small flash of blue caught his attention. Kevin turned to see Elizabeth waving her cell phone at him. He nodded, and flashed four fingers beneath his desk, telling her to hold on and follow him once the period was over. Thankfully enough, the bell rang two minutes later.

"Now remember, people, the chapter test is on Thursday, and I want to see the multiple-choice questions that you answered for review before the test!" Bridges yelled as chairs scraped along the floor and teenagers turned on cell phones and iPods. Kevin merely put his notebook in his pack and walked out the door. XC practice didn't start for a good thirty minutes, more than enough time to talk with his girlfriend. Lately, the relationship had been suffering, due in no small part to Kevin's Resistance activities and the vagarities of scheduling. Their sophomore year, they had shared three classes, but this year they only were in AP American history. He turned around, and saw Elizabeth was right behind him, just like he had thought. Turning away quickly into a small room, he set his pack down and flopped into a chair. Elizabeth did the same, but sat in the same chair as Kevin.

The room was, perhaps, the best-kept secret of the entire high school. It was furnished and used by the men and women's cross-country teams as a kind of 'lover's cove'—a place to ride out storms, as it were. No one, not even the teachers, knew of the room. The entire setup was surprising to any outsider—soft carpets, ample lights, a futon-like bed in a corner along with several chairs grouped around a coffee table and a TV with a well-stocked movie selection. Needless to say, a runner only brought their significant other to the room when they thought that the relationship would last quite a while.

"Hey, Elizabeth. Sorry I couldn't talk before class; Rowland was being a bastard with a pre-calc problem I couldn't get." Kevin apologized, kissing her lightly on the cheek. Elizabeth nodded her head, giggling.

"It's okay, Kevin. A lot of things like that happen. It's just life." Kevin nodded, looking at his watch. _Two hours until contact,_ he thought. Elizabeth saw that he was distracted, and also noticed that his muscles had tensed up.

"Man, you are tense today. Here, let me help you," Elizabeth said, turning around in the seat and beginning to work Kevin's shoulders. At first, Kevin tensed up even more, not knowing what was happening. Then he realized that she was trying to give him a massage.

"Thanks, Elizabeth. I guess I need this," Kevin said, submitting to her touch. He had an odd habit of referring to people by their full names, even though Kevin knew that she actually preferred Beth to Elizabeth. However, he tried to stay deferential and professional at all times, a habit that endeared him to her parents. He relaxed as he felt Elizabeth's hands work his muscles, and, truth be told, he was grateful for it. His shoulders were tensing up far more often on runs than they had in the past and he could almost feel the pain in those sockets and muscles. Then her hands began to venture lower.

"Elizabeth, what are you doing?" He asked playfully. To his surprise and shock, he felt his shirt lift up, and, more terrifying, he realized that Elizabeth could see at least two scars, both from 7.62mm rounds. The bullets, although passing through him, hadn't done any damage, essentially just glancing blows—enough to spin him to the ground, but not enough to kill. He feared that he could keep his Resistance duties secret for only a short while longer.

"Kevin, what happened to you?" Elizabeth asked, her voice full of shock. Seeing a scar, mused Kevin, is always shocking, let alone injuries incurred in combat. He had to think fast, though, or else he would be put in a bind.

"It's nothing, Elizabeth. Some trigger-happy _militsya_ officer thought I was someone else, but thankfully his aim would have gotten him disqualified from their training courses back in Russia. I think he was transferred to a desk job; the captain handling my recovery wished as much." Elizabeth looked at him in complete horror.

"When did this happen? I wasn't aware of it," She said, almost accusingly. Kevin heard anger enter her voice, and so he had to come up with a reply, and fast.

"It was over summer vacation. We all decided to keep it quiet, because one, I didn't die, and two, the offending officer was punished. I personally thought that was sufficient compensation, and I told my parents to get the idea of criminal charges out of their heads. It doesn't do well to anger the Russian bear after he saves you, right?" Kevin chuckled at his own joke. Turning around, he saw that Elizabeth, although frightened, had accepted his lie. Internally, he breathed a sigh of relief. _My secret is safe for a few more days._ His eyes flicked back to his watch.

"Oh, damn. I'm sorry I have to cut this short, but I have to get going. XC starts in a few minutes, and you know my times schedule…" He was not a bit surprised and happy when Elizabeth cut him off.

"I know. 'If you're five minutes early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late, and if you're late, you're dead.' I've heard the speech a dozen times, Kevin." Smiling, Kevin brushed her cheek with his lips.

"I love you," he whispered as he shouldered his pack and almost double-timed it to the lockers. He could have easily ran out to his car and thrown his pack in, but he decided that he didn't have time. Pulling his Underarmor and running shorts, he wondered what the run would be like. _We did the six-miler to the beach and back yesterday, so we might just do the course._ _Then again, Coach might just make us do speedwork,_ he thought with revulsion. Mile repeats were not Kevin's favorite, to say the least. He noticed that he had a little time to wander out to the track, and so calmly walked to it, finding an Ultimate game in progress.

"Over here, over here!" His friend and team captain John Leonards yelled out. Kevin chuckled as he saw the bare-chested runner barrel across the field hockey field, trying to get to the end zone, the start of a straightaway on the track. John always sprinted when the end of the game was near, and this was no exception. The captain leaped up, caught the Frisbee, and then let out a roar of triumph. Kevin wished that he didn't do that, if only out of sportsmanship, but captains are as captains do.

"I see Leonards is up to his usual tricks," a voice behind Villiers said, and Coach Praetor smiled as Villiers nodded. William Praetor, although not a running legend on the Cape, was certainly a competent one. He had three Boston marathons under his belt, as well as many five and ten ks before he wrenched his knee in his first ultra marathon. He couldn't run very fast now because of that injury, but he instead coached Nauset Regional High's boys XC team as a way to give back to the running community. Although not as good as some of the other teams, Nauset's XC team, Praetor claimed, was the best because of their commitment and friendship with each other.

"Hey, Coach. What's the game plan today?" Leonards asked as he ran up. As team captain, Leonards felt like he had the need to know for what the team would be doing that day.

"It's pretty simple. We'll be doing a fartlek on the course, repeating the loop twice. Should be a good workout for you fast guys. The slower ones will be doing the course, then some acceleration-deceleration work on the track. That sound good?" Leonards nodded, then called the rest of the team over.

"Okay, guys, let's warm up!" He yelled across the field, and the guys started to jog along the track. Villiers kept up with Leonards on the warm-up, with David Workman right beside them. Villiers was probably the number five or six runner on the team, but he always ran 'with the wolves', as he called the upper-tier runners. Villiers had made it a policy to keep his mouth shut on the warm-ups and runs, instead preferring to listen to the light-hearted banter pass between the rest of the guys. But this day was different, for some reason. Villiers couldn't put a reason on it until they were at the treeline of the course, at the half-mile mark, doing their stretches. _No one's talking._ The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. Usually, there was a banter going on, with harmless insults rending the air. He looked up from stretching his hamstrings to see the reason for that quiet.

A squad of Russian soldiers, all in PT gear, was jogging the perimeter of the school's fields. He could hear the squad leader call out a cadence in Russian, but didn't understand what he was saying. That didn't scare him. What did was that they were all looking in the team's direction, watching them as a hawk would a rabbit. Villiers broke the silence.

"John, I think that we should get going." John turned at the sudden hardness and authority in Villiers' tone; he had never heard it before. Looking at the junior, he saw a coldness and ferocity that had never crossed his face before. _Coureur_ was present, even if the others didn't realize it. The captain nodded nervously, then started onto the course, the rest following him. Villiers' suspicions were confirmed when the squad turned onto the course themselves, obviously tailing the runners, most of whom, including Villiers, had taken their shirts off in response to the heat, even in October.

"Leonards, listen to me carefully," Villiers said, up ahead at the front of the pack. "We're going to run at a normal pace until we enter the trees along the power lines. At that point, we're going to book it to the two mile mark. I'll go towards the beach, you take the rest of the guys on the course. I'll see what's up with the Russkies." Leonard, already nervous because of the soldiers, decided to follow Villiers' instructions. He had no idea what the junior was going to do, but he decided to trust his gut on this one. It seemed like Kevin knew what to do.  
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_Okay, you bastards. Let's see if you follow me._ Villiers thought as he turned left instead of right at the trail intersection. He ran hard for two hundred meters, then turned off down a small, ill-used path. Reaching it, he followed the path until he got to a tree with a dug-out base. Inside that hole was a ghillie suit and a real treat for Villiers, a suppressed Dragunov rifle. It wasn't his preferred rifle, but the situation called for a weapon like this. Villiers had kept it in the woods so that if it was discovered, no one could tie it to him. Putting on gloves and the suit, Villiers lay prone and shouldered the rifle. It was painted with a custom woodland pattern, one that could blend in with the forest during the fall or winter, along with spring, to a degree. Villiers looked down the 5x scope at the trail, waiting patiently.

Sure enough, the Russian squad soon came into sight, pistols in hand. _Okay, ten men, as per Soviet doctrine. At least five will be experts with the pistols. Seem to be regular Russian service, no supressors or extended magazines. Might have a higher powder content, though. If I do this right, I can get away with one expended magazine._ Villiers thought all of this quickly, knowing that, in his plan, seconds meant the difference between life and death. He waited until he estimated that the rear was about three hundred yards away. He willed his breathing to slow down, and slowly counted to ten. It had the effect of forcing his heart to beat more slowly, improving his aim markedly. He sighted in on the man's chest, then noticed the bulge.

_Coureur_ quickly shifted aim to the head, waiting a few more crucial seconds. Slowly, steadily, he squeezed the trigger. A muffled _pfft_ came from the rifle, and the soldier's head exploded. Blood sprayed out onto the trees, and the man dropped to the ground. To their credit, the squad acted quickly. They took cover behind whatever they could find, and started looking for the sniper. Villiers didn't move a muscle. The human eye is attracted to motion, and he was denying them that evolutionary advantage.

One of the soldiers, after about a minute, moved his head towards another, a question coming from his lips. _Coureur_ slowly sighted on the soldier, and fired another round. This man's shoulder erupted in blood, the round traversing his chest cavity, penetrating his heart, and lodging in his lung. The soldier fell down, a rattling cough coming from his lungs before dying.

The rest of the squad finally had enough. They shot up the woods, hoping for a lucky shot to kill the sniper. _Coureur_ didn't move. Finally, the soldiers advanced slowly, with the squad leader and his assistant hanging back to look over the entire scene. Villiers sighted in on the squad leader, and almost didn't take the shot. He looked like a kid barely out of high school, with the beginnings of a beard emerging on his face. His eyes betrayed him, though, skillfully examining the terrain as he looked for the sniper. That sentenced him to death. The assistant was just about to ask a question when a bullet sped seemingly out of nowhere into his superior's throat, killing him almost instantly. The new sergeant then knew that they were hunting _Coureur_.

Villiers acted rapidly, putting a round into the man's head, moving on to the next target. With the command structure eliminated, he worked quickly and furiously, taking down the soldiers as they ran for cover. Finally, there was only one left, who screamed the only obscenity that Villiers understood in Russian. _Fuck my mother, eh?_ He thought in a moment of macabre humor, as he sighted in on the private. He was shooting up the trees, confused and panicked. _Coureur_ shot him between the eyes, ending the fight and letting silence descend on the forest yet again.

Villiers acted quickly. He policed the brass, and put them into the rifle's case. He quickly hid the rifle, gloves and ghillie suit back into the hole, covering it with a piece of sod and moss that served the purpose admirably. He ran back onto the course quickly, where he encountered a frightened group of teenagers ahead of him. He decided to run the course the other way, to avoid the messy and awkward explanations that his actions were sure to demand. _And so once more, Kevin, you lose a part of your soul and humanity with those deaths,_ the philosophical part of his mind lectured him. _I hope, for your sake, that the killing will stop soon; you shall be a killer, nothing better than some of the Russians you yourself have killed._ Kevin told his inner voice to shut up as he pounded the ground, trying to leave the stress of combat behind him.

Back at the track, Leonard and David Workman were shaking. Villiers had turned off the path, and a few minutes later they had heard gunfire, as well as shouting. The two top runners had increased their pace immediately, trying to get away from the sounds they now recognized as a firefight. They were scared, and they didn't know what was going on. Suddenly, they heard a Marine cadence being shouted from across the track, and they saw Villiers come running back hard, forcing the others around him to pick it up. He had gained a reputation as the 'motivation' coach of the team, scaring the underclassmen into nearly sprinting to get away from him. The results showed in the meets; they were all too scared of what Villiers could devise as a punishment for them.

"Well, how are we, guys?" Villiers asked as he finished right in front of the two runners. They merely stared at him, then Workman spoke up.

"I don't know what the fuck happened, and I don't think I want to." Workman said, his eyes reflecting the fear that he felt. Somehow, Villiers had an aura of death about him. Workman couldn't explain it, but it certainly felt like he was a harbinger of destruction and violence. Villiers nodded silently. _In time, my friends, in time_. His eyes reflected the thought, and that made the fear of the two runners even more palpable.

As Villiers changed back into his street clothes, he felt his phone vibrate. Opening it, he saw that he had a text message from Alexa. _2030, Thai cuisine, bar. Wear your Scout polo. ST. NICHOLAS OF MYRA._ Villiers couldn't help but smile. St. Nicholas of Myra, in Catholicism, was one of the patron saints of sailors, which was exactly was both Alexa and he were. He knew that he would have no trouble meeting Alexa, as it was a Friday, and Kevin occasionally went out to eat with his friends. His parents would understand.  
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"Well, Alexa, I'm here." Alexa, in a fashionable and alluring yet conservative dress, turned around to see Kevin in tan slacks and his Scout polo, one he received for being a sailing instructor at a camp several years ago. It was one of his identifying features at any informal yet 'dressy' function.

"So you are. Anything you'd like to drink?" Alexa asked. Kevin responded by motioning to the bar tender, who smiled, seeing a friend. "An iced coffee, please." Kevin spoke to the man. It was a ritual with the two, as that was often all Kevin would order when he was out with his friends. The bar tender smiled, then disappeared into the kitchen, having taken another order previously.

"Well, what is it that you'd like to tell me? Anything from Miers?" Kevin asked. He had considered the woman's offer, and accepted it with a few conditions, primarily being able to stay in school and live with his family. Miers had instructed him to begin Resistance operations whenever and wherever he deemed necessary, with the long-term goal of neutralizing the old Coast Guard air station in Falmouth. So far, he had only eliminated several officers and the one squad trailing him.

"Well, Kevin, Miers has given me an odd request. She wants to meet you in person again. From what I can tell, you'll be picked up in Orleans tomorrow at 0900 in order to meet her. I'm not sure where she has hidden herself, but she appears to be in charge of most if not all Resistance operations in Massachusetts, if not New England." Kevin motioned for her to continue. "Right. I think she wants to discuss the possibility of moving a squad down to the Cape, to handle operations under your supervision." Kevin leaned back in his chair and motioned for Alexa to be quiet as the bar tender appeared with his drink.

"Alexa, that's going to be difficult," he started. "I'm supposed to be in school, and I can't randomly take a day off just to lead a raid somewhere. If anything, the squad should be operating independently of me, and I am to function as an advisor and sometimes support element, not its commander." Alexa quirked her eyebrows at this, not understanding what Kevin was saying. He sighed mentally. _Civilians and military speak different languages, and never the twain shall meet,_ he thought.

"What Miers should do is assign the squad or section a leader that she trusts, one who can take advice from those who live there and combine it with his own experience. Also, he should understand that the local contacts have limitations placed upon that they can't shrug off without being exposed as an operative." Alexa nodded now, understanding what Kevin had meant. Kevin quickly drained his drink, and set the cost plus a generous tip down on the table. He motioned outside the restaurant, and Alexa followed him.

"Alexa, I want you to relay what I've told you to Miers, through whatever channel you use. Tell her that my recommendation is that of an operative on the ground and at the scene, and she would be wise to trust it. Also, tell her that the local garrison is starting to look around for _Coureur_; I might have to go to ground sooner than I thought, and I'd like it if whatever unit she sends could be here to protect me." Alexa nodded, and the two got into their separate cars, one driving back towards home, the other one towards an out of the way pub where she could relay a message.  
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"Well, it would appear that _Coureur_ has a sharp mind, if nothing else. I would trust his assessment, Ms. Miers. My gut tells me it's right." Major Dawes informed the New England Resistance commander. She nodded.

"Something tells me that he's right, too. These reports that we've been getting seem to indicate that the Soviets are cracking down on certain fighters whose cover names are well known. _Coureur_ is too valuable an asset to lose. Send Captain Briggs and his platoon down to the Cape; they've operated together before."


End file.
